


Potestas

by sospes



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-11 03:52:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3312893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sospes/pseuds/sospes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Guys like this can take punches. They’re used to it. It’s something that fits into the rules of their world. So to get to them, you have to take them out of their world. Take them somewhere they’ve never been before. Take away their power.” And hands start unbuttoning Eggsy’s shirt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Blood drips from Eggsy’s lips to puddle on the cold stone floor. 

He watches it absently. He’s pretty sure he should be in some serious pain right now—especially when he tries to open his mouth, just lolls his tongue out instead and spits out a tooth that clatters down to join those bloodspots on the floor—but his body is numb, unresponsive. The pain hides behind a faraway curtain. It doesn’t touch him. It really probably should. 

A hand grabs his hair, pulls his head upright. The face that hoves into view is hard and brutal, scarred around the lips and growling around the jowls, and it says, “You like that? Like it when I make you bleed? Fucking whore.” 

Eggsy should probably respond to that. Something witty would be best, delivered with an appropriate dose of Kingsman scorn, but all his brain can come up with is, _Nah, bruv_ – and even that won’t come out of his mouth. He’s trying, he really is, but his lips are like bloody, phlegmy rubber – and, oh, he’s pretty sure that his nose is broken. He’s not sure when that happened. 

The face laughs, then spits in his face. The spittle lands on his forehead, slides down into his right eye, then keeps going all the way to his mouth. Eggsy _tastes it_ , alien in on his tongue, and revulsion should be riling up in his stomach but it’s _not_.

Fuck, he is seriously drugged up right now. 

The face is still staring at him, and it says, “It’s no fun when they don’t scream.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t’ve shot him up so much, then.” The other voice is deeper, richer. He can’t see it.

The first face drops Eggsy’s head—his chin lands hard on his chest, and he’s pretty sure that he just bit through his tongue: something small and fleshy jets out of his mouth, joins the blood and teeth and saliva on the floor—and turns around. “Did you not see the number of our guys he took out? With a fucking _umbrella_? It’d be suicide to not dope him. And sue me if I wasn’t going to be really really sure that he wasn’t going to do what he did to Marky and _rip my throat out with his teeth_.”

Something bubbles up in Eggsy’s throat, and he thinks it might be a laugh. He remembers Marky: he was a big guy, at least a head taller than him and twice as wide, but he was so fucking slow and Eggsy just dove in there—umbrella gone by that point in the scrap, gun empty and knife clattered somewhere far away across the floor—and did the first thing he could think to do. Marky’s blood was like fucking fire down his throat. Merlin’s going to give him shots when he gets back, he just knows it. 

That hand is grabbing his hair again, and his head is jerked back so far he thinks he hears something snap in his neck. “What was that?” the first face spits. “Was that a _laugh_? Do you think that’s _funny_? Fucking savage.” 

_Yeah,_ Eggsy’s absent brain says. _It was really fucking hilarious. You should have seen his face when he saw his windpipe hanging out my mouth—_

It’s probably for the best that he can’t speak right now. 

“No.” That’s the second voice again, and now he can see it: small where this guy is bulky, clean-skinned where this one is scarred. “No, he’s not a savage. Look at him, look at those clothes.” Fingers pluck at Eggsy’s jacket—bespoke, of course, but now pretty much fucked beyond repair—and that face says, “This guy’s something we haven’t seen before. He’s a _gentleman_.”

The first face sneers. “Did you hear him talk?” 

“It’s not about the accent,” the second face sneers back. “Don’t be so close-minded. I don’t know who this guy is, but I wouldn’t want to meet more like him. And I don’t think all your violence is going to do much.” Eggsy’s head is tipped again, and the second face touches the scar that’s raked down the side of his neck. “No, this guy’s taken more beatings than you’ve had hot dinners. And he’s still going.” 

“So what? You want me to let him go?!”

“Don’t be stupid. I want you to get _creative_.” Eggsy’s head’s at the wrong angle now: he can’t see either of the faces, but he can hear the laugh in that voice. 

“Creative? I’m not a fucking artist. What are you talking about?” 

“Guys like this,” the second face says, soft and dangerous, “can take punches. They’re used to it. It’s something that fits into the rules of their world. So to get to them, you have to take them _out_ of their world. Take them somewhere they’ve never been before. Take away their power.” And hands start unbuttoning Eggsy’s shirt. 

That’s okay. Nudity he can deal with—showering in front of those posh fucks he trained with taught him that much—so even now, as his shirt and jacket and tie are being torn away (he _likes_ that tie), it doesn’t quite penetrate the haze. His head’s lolled back against the back of the chair, now, and he stares at the ceiling. Cold air pricks the skin of his chest, squeezes his lungs, and those hands move on, tugs his belt out of its loops, pulls off his impeccably tailored trousers. They took his shoes a long time ago—about when they started pulling out his toenails, actually—so that’s not really a problem. They’ve left him his boxers, but he can feel those fingers at the waistband, tugging just lightly. 

The first face chimes up again. “Phil, what are you doing?”

“What you did to that Russian bitch last week. And don’t use my name! What are you, some Northern amateur?” 

The first face chuckles, chortles. “You sick fuck. I didn’t think you were into boys.”

“I’m not,” the second voice answers. “But I don’t reckon he is, either.”

And it’s only then that it clicks in Eggsy’s mind. Fear hits him in the heart, sharp and acrid – but he can’t move. His limbs won’t listen. He can’t fight, can’t get away. _Oh, fuck._

His boxers go, ripped in half and tossed aside, and now he’s properly naked, dick shrivelled with the cold and the fear. His head is grabbed and pulled up again, and now the second face— _Phil? Remember that. Remember that so you can find him and kill him when this is over._ —is closer, now. It’s sneering, mocking. Its lips are wet with spittle, and it says, “Tony. Grab his belt.” 

The belt goes around Eggsy’s neck. Phil draws it tight, too tight, and the buckle is digging into his skin so tight it’s going to break the surface before long and it’s cutting off his breathing, cutting off his air. Eggsy’s choking but not enough to pass out. Not yet. 

The chair is dragged out from under him and he thuds to the floor to land among his own blood and body parts. His head cracks back against the stone— _Ow, fuck me._ —but that belt around his neck jerks him back up again. He’s a dog on a leash. _JB. JB. Fuck, who’s going to look after him when I’m—_

“Hold him still, Tony. I don’t want him to bite my dick off like he bit out Marky’s throat.” 

There’s darkness creeping at the edges of Eggsy’s vision. More than anything, he wants it to take him. 

“You look like you’ve done this before, Phil. D’you make a habit of doing undercover cops in the arse?” They’re laughing. They’re laughing like he’s not even there. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Whichever one of them’s holding the fucking leash around his neck is yanking it harder, harder. Too hard. He can’t breathe. 

“Nah, I only do this with your girlfriend, Tony. The little whore’s always begging for it.” 

Tony cackles too, now, and the leash cinches tighter. 

Darkness dances before Eggsy’s eyes, and the last thing that goes through his head before it takes him is, _I can’t die like this_. 

 

When Eggsy wakes, he’s alone. 

He’s on his feet even before he’s fully conscious, fists up, ready to fight. His head is still fuzzy, still fogged by the drugs that are still working their way out of his system, but it’s so much sharper than it was before, and his breath comes fast, panting. Adrenaline pumps through his veins. 

But there’s no one to fight. 

The cell is small, cold stone walls and a cold stone floor, and it doesn’t look like those fuckers— _Literally and figuratively_ , a nasty little voice in the back of his mind points out.—decided to clean up after themselves when they were done. The floor is dotted with blood and white smears that definitely aren’t spittle, and, yeah, it looks like he _did_ manage to bit off a chunk of his own tongue. The chair’s still there, metal legs scratched into the floor, and his clothes have been kicked into one corner. They’re crumpled and torn and ruined. 

Eggsy lowers his fists, just a little. His breath is still coming fast and hard. 

He can feel the pain, now, sharp and dull and aching all at once. He’s missing two teeth and he can fucking feel _that_ , but it’s the pain in – in his arse that’s the worst. He feels like he’s been ripped in two—

“No,” he says. His voice is hoarse and scratchy. “Don’t.” 

First things first: he needs to get the fuck out of here. And, lucky for him, those amateurs have made it easy for him.

Eggsy moves to the pile of his clothes, trying to ignore the limp that he can’t quite override, and crouches down, sorts through the heap until he finds his shirt. It’s ripped so thoroughly that even Kingsman Tailors couldn’t fix it up again, but that doesn’t matter. He can’t exactly sneak out of this dingy hole on the wrong side of the river dressed in his own clothes—he’s going to have to steal something to wear, but that’s okay: he’s working out the plan in the back of his mind, because he might have been drugged up to the eyeballs last night but he can still hold a map in his head—but that’s not what he’s looking for. He drags the two halves of the shirt out of the pile, finds the cuffs, detaches the cufflinks. Or, should he say, the microexplosives. 

The door’s pretty basic—he could probably pick the fucking lock if he was willing to stay that long in this dirty cell that stinks of sweat and, fuck, sex—so he works one of the cufflinks into the lock, primes the other and slots it in next. He’s got six seconds before they blow, so he retreats to the other corner of the room, curls up in the corner and shields his eyes.

The blast is small enough that, hopefully, it won’t have drawn any attention. The door swings open a little, and Eggsy gets to his feet again, limps towards the open doorway. His heart should be racing, should be pounding so hard he can barely breathe—he’s naked, unarmed, and currently in the middle of a facility that is full of enemy combatants—but it’s slow, calm. Disinterested. That’s probably not a good thing, but Eggsy isn’t complaining right now. He doesn’t need the fear.

The corridor’s clear, and he heads out. He can faintly hear voices in the distance: they’re not close enough to present him with any threat but he moves quickly anyway, dodging along the cold stone and hiding in the corners. He should be freezing but he’s not. He should be in some serious pain but he’s not. 

Everything’s just sort of numb. 

There’s a guy in a jumpsuit and a baseball cap just ahead of him, fiddling with a fuse box set into the wall. He’s about Eggsy’s side—a bit narrower across the shoulders, but he can work with that—and he’s apparently completely engrossed in his work. Good. This is good. Eggsy pads forward, bare feet making no noise on the cold floor, and he’s on the guy before he can react, arm around his neck, choking, choking. He’ll pull tighter until the guy’s out, then he’ll leave him on the floor and nick his clothes and _go home_ —

Just for a moment, he remembers the belt around his neck. 

He snaps jumpsuit’s neck without even thinking about it. His hands are shaking, his legs are wobbly – and jumpsuit slides to the ground, slack and limp. There’s a logo on the back of his jumpsuit: _Woodman’s Electrians._

No time to think about that right now. No time to think about the fact that he just murdered an innocent man. 

His heart still beats slow and steady in his chest.

Eggsy strips jumpsuit’s jumpsuit, pulls it on, takes his boots and socks, too, pulls them on too. He leaves the guy his tighty whiteys, pulls his baseball cap down low over his bloody, bruised face, and walks. He remembers the way in so he remembers the way out, and he follows that path, follows it with instinct and skill and his heart beating so steadily in his chest. He starts passing people but they don’t pay him the slightest bit of attention—no one ever questions the help—and by the time the exit is in sight all the fuzz has cleared from his head. The drugs are gone. It’s almost over. 

“Hey, you checked up on that crazy bastard yet? I want to see the look in his eyes.” 

Eggsy freezes. That’s the voice, that’s the voice that taunted and laughed and said _Take away their power_ like it was the easiest thing in the world – and fuck, _fuck_ , his head is racing now, thudding and pounding and, God, he can’t leave. He can’t just walk away, because _those fuckers raped him—_

A laugh. “I want to see the look in his eyes when I put a bullet between them. Your whore girlfriend is a _much_ better fuck.” 

Eggsy can’t breathe. 

He doesn’t remember leaving. He doesn’t remember walking out that door and certainly doesn’t remember how he managed to not turn around and launch himself at those sick fucks with nothing but his bare hands – but when he comes to, he’s next to the river. Cold winter air shudders through his lungs, there’s snow dotted on the ground and this jumpsuit is definitely not warm enough – but he knows where he is. He knows where to go. 

He starts walking, and he tries not to think about the pain in his head, in his legs, in his stomach. They worked him over pretty well before moving on to – other things, and he might not have looked very hard before he got the fuck out of that cell but he’s pretty sure his ribs are black and blue and probably cracked right about now. That’s okay, though. He’s used to pushing through the pain, and so he keeps going, keeps walking. Pulls his collar up higher around his throat when he realises he’s getting some right funny looks. Doesn’t think about the belt around his neck, soft, supple leather and sharp silver points digging into his skin. Now that he thinks about it, there’s dried blood on his chest. He guesses they did break the skin, after all. 

Eggsy’s limp isn’t getting better. He thinks his knee might be, for lack of a better word, fucked. 

Savile Row looms large around him. He’s learned to call this street home over the past few years but right now he remembers how he felt all that time ago, sharing a pavement with people who look down their nose at him for what he’s wearing and how he walks. His body is a walking bruise right about now and it shows – but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t stop. Staggers up the steps to Kingsman Tailors, pushes the door open with his shoulder because he can’t raise his arms high enough. Hobbles past James’ startled expression, ignores the stares of the customers browsing fabrics who don’t know that this isn’t just a simple tailors. Limps up the stairs, makes his way through the corridors only by holding on to the wall for support. Aims for the dining room even as his vision begins to spot and blur. 

He’s been hurt before plenty, punched and kicked and snapped in two, but it’s never been this bad before. It’s never gone this deep. 

There are voices coming from the dining room, but they’re voices he recognises so he doesn’t stop moving. Merlin and Roxy – and now that he’s thinking about it, he remembers that Roxy’s getting off-mission today, coming in for her debriefing from some job in North Korea that even the other Kingsmen aren’t supposed to know about. Eggsy knows, though, because he knows everything there is to know about Roxy, just like she knows everything there is to know about him: falling from the skies with only one parachute between you is a surefire way to make an ally for life—

And it’s that that makes him hesitate. 

Him and Roxy, they rely on each other. They need each other, and they need each other to be whole and healthy and _not fucking weak_. Eggsy stands outside the closed doors to the dining room, knees shaking, hands clenching and unclenching uselessly, and he can’t move, because guys don’t get raped. _Spies_ don’t get raped. 

“Oh, fuck,” he rasps. “Oh, _fuck_.”

The dining room doors swing wide open, and Roxy’s there, she’s _right there_. Her expression goes from startled to joyous to confused in about two seconds flat, and then she says, “Eggsy?”

Eggsy doesn’t answer. He can’t, because all of a sudden the oak panelling and thick carpets are gone, faded away, and he’s back there in that cold cell, limbs limp and blood drooling from his lips, cheek scraping against the cold stone floor as they—

“Galahad?” Merlin looms tall behind Roxy. “Galahad, what happened to your neck?”

Galahad. He’s Galahad, a Kingsman, a super-secret highly-trained spy-assassin-gentleman, and some fucker just shoved his dick up his arse and fucked him raw. 

Eggsy passes out, and Roxy only just catches him before he hits the floor. 

 

When Eggsy wakes again, it’s to soft blankets and the cool beeping of the Kingsman Infirmary. 

He comes to slowly, gently, and he can feel everything, now, feel the ache in his ribs and the throbbing pain in his jaw and the tug of the bruises around his neck. It hurts, _fuck_ it hurts, but it’s a hurt that’s so much better than the numbness. He takes a breath, takes another, feels them rasp against his abused throat. 

“Hey. Hey, Eggsy. You’re okay.”

Roxy’s sitting in a chair next to his bed, hair pulled back in that severe ponytail she always favours, and there are dark circles under her eyes. She looks like she hasn’t slept in a week. “Rox?” The voice sounds like something out of a bad horror flick. Eggsy licks his lips, coughs a little, tries again: “How long?”

Roxy understands without him having to stay more. “Only about a day,” she answers. “Merlin actually wasn’t expecting you to wake up for a little while yet. You were pretty injured.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy answers. “Yeah, I can feel that.” He shifts against the pillows and has to suppress a cry of pain when he lets too much pressure fall onto his arse. “Oh, fucking hell,” he rasps, slides back down to where he was before. 

Roxy’s half on her feet. “Do you want me to get Merlin?” she asks.

“No,” Eggsy snaps, almost barks. He takes a steadying breath, squeezes his eyes shut and forces back the tears, says, “No, Rox, I’m okay. I just need to stay here. Don’t get Merlin all the way down here. I’m good.” 

Roxy subsides. She takes her seat again, leans forward, says, “What happened? You weren’t supposed to be back for another week, and then you show up looking like you fell off a cliff. What happened to you?” There’s a tone in her voice that he knows all too well: worry and fear and anger and hurt. 

Eggsy reaches out, finds her hand and squeezes it, ignores the pain that sparks in his chest. “I’m okay, Rox. Really. A bit banged up, but I’ll heal.” Her expression tells him exactly how little that reassures her, and he tries again: “Okay, I’m not great. But I’m back now. Fuckers can’t use me as their drugged-up pet punching bag anymore, you know?” 

Roxy doesn’t answer, just keeps glaring that glare at him.

Eggsy caves. “Alright, alright,” he says. “Looks like that particular trafficking ring has a lot more crazy thugs than Merlin’s intel reckoned. Twenty on one isn’t fair odds. I took a fair few of them down with me, don’t worry.” He flashes her his best smirk. She doesn’t bite. “Turns out they didn’t like me taking down their goons,” Eggsy continues. “Locked me up, knocked me around a bit. Nothing I can’t handle. When I’m out of this bed I’ll go back with a rifle and shoot every single one of them in the fucking head. It’s all good.” 

Roxy’s face doesn’t change. She’s angry, so angry, angrier than he’s ever seen her before, and she just says, “Eggsy, Merlin’s medical exam was very thorough.” 

Eggsy’s stomach goes cold. 

“You had four broken ribs,” Roxy says, voice as cool and clinical as when she’s behind the scope of a sniper rifle. “Two missing teeth and a fractured jaw. Broken nose, sprained ankle. Three missing toenails. Half a centimetre of your tongue missing. Enough bruising and scabbing around your throat that it looks like you’ve been hung. And—”

“Don’t say it,” Eggsy hisses between his teeth. “Don’t you fucking say it, Rox.” 

“And anal tearing,” Roxy says, softer now. “A lot of them. You’d bled through that jumpsuit you were wearing long before you even got back to the shop. James had to tranq half the customers, and we’re going to have to get the carpets deep-cleaned.”

Eggsy’s hackles are up. “Sorry, alright,” he barks. “I wasn’t thinking straight. Still drugged up, still fucked in the head.” 

“No one’s blaming your lack of protocol,” Roxy says. “Percival’s working with Merlin on the cleanup, and you know what he’s like for efficiency. That’s not the problem.” 

Every breath is fire in Eggsy’s lungs. “What’s the problem, then?” he bolshes. “Can’t have a Kingsman who’d let himself get bummed by a couple of traffickers? Can’t be in the same room as me now that I’m not a fucking _gentleman_ anymore?” 

Horror spasms through Roxy’s eyes. “No!” she cries. “You think I’d think that? _No._ Eggsy, you’re more a Kingsman than any of us, you _know_ that. But you can’t just lock this up and forget about it, and I _know_ you want to. You need to—”

“What I need,” Eggsy barks, “is to kill those fuckers that did this to me. Then I’ll be fine. Then this’ll be over.” 

Roxy says, voice tight and furious, “You think I don’t understand? I’m a woman, Eggsy, and the kind of people we deal with use sex as a weapon _all the time._ I’ve had drug lords and psychos come in my hair and grab my breasts more often than you know. I know what this feels like.” Her voice is shaking. Maybe he doesn’t know everything there is to know about Roxy after all – and for once he’s glad, because the thought of some pervert jacking off all over her while she just sits there and takes it and bides her time is almost more than he can stand. It’s not that he’s possessive of her, no, not at all—they’re not _together_ , they never would be—but theirs is a bond that is so much stronger than any relationship Eggsy has ever had. She’s his sister and his lover and his colleague and his ally and her safety is everything to him. Her _trust_ is everything to him. 

She can’t see him like this. She can’t. 

“Go,” Eggsy croaks. “Please, Roxy. I don’t want to talk about this now.” 

Roxy’s quiet for a long moment. Finally she stands, legs long and strong, hands open at her side. “Okay,” she says, then again: “Okay. But the moment you need me, you call me, okay? Eggsy, promise me. _Swear_ it.”

Eggsy’s eyes are closed. “You know I will,” he says. 

“Good,” Roxy says, and her voice is so full of pain. “Good,” she says again, and then he can hear her moving, shifting. “I’ll go,” she says finally, “but I thought you might like someone to keep you company.” 

He’d recognise the smell of that yipping, barking mess of fur and saliva anywhere. 

Roxy deposits JB on his stomach, careful to keep the pug’s flailing feet away from the bandages that are wrapped tight around Eggsy’s ribcage, then runs her hand through his hair, leans down and kisses his forehead. She doesn’t say anything else, just turns and goes, and if there are tears in her eyes then she won’t let them fall. She’s a Kingsman, and Kingsmen don’t cry. 

Eggsy gathers JB into his arms, ignores the pain that knifes through his side, and lets his dog lick salty-wet tears off his bruised and battered cheeks.

_To be continued._


	2. Chapter 2

Eggsy’s always been a fast healer. 

He’s only laid up for two days before he’s wandering around the mansion, running around the grounds with JB struggling to keep up and pissing off Merlin by tearing his stitches – and, honestly, his ankle really doesn’t hurt anymore. Yeah, when he runs he’s a bit more weighted on one side than the other, but that’s okay. That doesn’t matter. It’s a stupid sprain and it’s not going to hold him back. He’s not going to let it – so he runs and runs, and when he’s so tired he can’t walk anymore he collapses in the leaves and the winter soil, frozen soil, and watches his breath ice on the air. At least he can see the sky. 

Sometimes he runs so much that the tears in his toes pull open again and bleed through his trainers. 

Merlin is less impressed by all this activity, and at one point he threatens to tie Eggsy down if he doesn’t just _stay in the fucking Infirmary!_ Eggsy knows he’s only fussing because he cares, because it’s hell on them all to see each other suffer, but that doesn’t stop the ice from coating his heart at the idea of bonds and ties and a leather belt, choking around his neck. 

Not that that’s what Merlin meant. Not that that’s what he would ever mean.

Roxy, fuck her, hovers. She’s due some off-time after the Korea mission—he tries to ask her about it, once, but she shuts him down faster than he can blink—and so she spends half her time on the range, sniping at targets with pinpoint accuracy, and the other half stalking him around the Kingsman estate. 

For the most part, Eggsy does his best to ignore it. He knows she’s not going to stop. 

A week passes, and Merlin grudgingly agrees to let him leave the mansion and its grounds. He’s still got bandages wrapped so tight around his ribs he can barely breathe—not around his neck, _not around his neck_ —and his denailed toes still twinge with pain whenever he steps too hard, but the worst of the bruises have faded by now: his face is no longer a colourful patina of green-blue-purple. His neck is another story, but the chill in the air solves that: he wears scarves and he never takes them off. 

Eggsy goes to the shop, hangs around and plays with the toys in Fitting Room Three, but it’s hard not to feel James’ wary gaze on the back of his neck— _his neck_ —the whole fucking time. It’s not disdain or disgust, logically he knows that, no, it’s more to do with the fact that Merlin’s probably got him reporting back on Eggsy’s every movement, but that doesn’t stop it grating. Doesn’t stop it making Eggsy’s stomach churn. 

He needs to get out. He needs to go. 

So he does. It’s not hard—James actually is a tailor, albeit one with more weapons training than most Special Forces—so before long Eggsy is strolling down Savile Row, one hand in his pocket, the other keeping his scarf in place against the wind.

Sometimes his fingers brush his neck, buffeted by the wind and his still uneven walk, and pain spasms through his throat. 

He knows where he’s going. He knows where he has to go. 

There’s a little graveyard in West Hampstead, tucked away behind a chip shop and a Wetherspoons. It has ornate posts on either side of the entrance and beds of flowers that are clearly carefully tended by someone, and right at the back, under the shadow of an old oak tree whose roots are currently ruining the carefully-tended flowerbeds and the ornate stone walls, sits a fresh grave. 

It takes Eggsy a long time to approach that fresh grave. He wanders around the edges of the graveyard, reading funny names on headstones and kicking at loose sods of earth, listening to dogs barking in the street outside the Wetherspoons and studiously not looking at the reason he came here. But, of course, in the end he does. In the end he has to. 

The grave isn’t anything special. It’s just a plain stone headstone, only dates and a name – but the ground around it is covered with flowers, lilies and roses, daises and carnations, in every colour of the rainbow and then some. The fresh-dug earth is almost covered by them, and as Eggsy stands there he’s finding that he can’t remember how to breathe. 

Fuck, he knew this would be hard, but this? This is impossible.

But he doesn’t run. He doesn’t turn his back and run away, even though—

No. Don’t think about the _even thoughs_. Harry wouldn’t run away. 

Eggsy stands there for a long time, scarf knotted tight around his bruised neck, hands deep in his jacket pockets. 

“You’re not supposed to leave the shop.”

Eggsy’s known she’s been there for six minutes no, not just from her footsteps and the sound of her breathing but from her perfume, too. She always insists on wearing that same perfume, even though it carries on the wind and it gives her away easy, if you know what you’re looking for – but, then again, he understands why. Her mother gave it to her, and that was pretty much the last thing her mother ever did. 

Sometimes Eggsy remembers watching Harry die, sometimes he dreams about it, and sometimes in those dreams Harry has the face of his father. 

Eggsy clears his throat, says, “Just trying to keep Merlin on his toes. He’s getting fat.” 

“He can hear you, you know,” Roxy says dryly. 

“Yeah,” Eggsy says, and doesn’t quite smile. “Yeah, I know.” He leans closer to the mike that’s woven into the lapel of every Kingsman jacket, says, “Fat bastard.” 

“He replies in kind,” Roxy says, and comes to stand next to him. She’s quiet for a moment, then she says, “Why are you here, Eggsy?”

Eggsy isn’t going to answer that, not yet, so he says, “How did you find me? I took the tracker out of the jacket, and the spare one I saw James put in this morning. Did you guys chip me while I was out?”

“Hardly.” Roxy reaches over, tugs so lightly at the end of his dark blue scarf that even his battered, bruised neck doesn’t feel it. “Tracking microfibres. They’re sewn into all your scarves, and most of the ones in the shop, too. Just in case.”

Eggsy’s almost impressed. “Didn’t know we had those.” 

“Up until about two days ago,” Roxy says, “we didn’t. Merlin wasn’t willing to let you wander off on your own.”

“And the scarf?” Eggsy supplies. 

Spots of colour bloom high in Roxy’s cheeks and she doesn’t meet his gaze. “I knew that you wouldn’t want anyone seeing those bruises,” she says quietly. “You don’t even want _me_ seeing those bruises.” 

Eggsy takes her hand, squeezes it tight, then laces their fingers together and doesn’t let go. “It’s not your fault, Rox,” he says, throaty, hoarse. “You can’t fix this.” 

Roxy turns to look at him, and her eyes are bright and burning. “I can bloody well try,” she insists. “But I _can’t_ if you won’t talk to me.” Her fingers are hot against his, and she holds on, squeezes tighter. 

Eggsy lets go of her hand, reaches up and takes the glasses right off her nose. Then he snaps them in two, tosses them over the back wall of the graveyard, then feels all along his jacket’s lapels until he finds the tiny, almost invisible lump, rips open the lining and snaps that wafer-thin mike in half, too. It crumbles easily between his fingers, and he sprinkles it across the ground. Across the grave and across the bright petals of the flowers. 

“What are you doing?” Roxy asks, and her tone is exasperated but she doesn’t try to stop him. 

“Making sure Merlin’s not listening,” Eggsy answers. He flashes her a shadow of his old grin, says, “Don’t worry, Rox, I know you’re going to report all of this back to him. I ain’t gonna make you lie. I just don’t want anyone but you to hear it this time round, okay?” 

Roxy watches him for a moment, lips set and eyes dark, then she takes his hand, squeezes it even tighter than before. “Okay,” she says. “Okay, Eggsy. I’m listening.” 

Thing is, Eggsy hasn’t said it yet. Not even in the dark of the night, when he can’t sleep for the beeping of the Infirmary machines and he knows that there’s no one watching him on the other side of Merlin’s cameras: he couldn’t bring himself to say it even then, because he knows that once he does there’s no going back, there’s no _hiding_ from this. If there’s one thing Kingsman has taught him, it’s that actions have consequences—

And he really doesn’t think he’s ready for those consequences.

But Roxy’s waiting. 

Eggsy turns back to the grave, buries his chin deeper into the scarf that is his defence and his curse, and says, “I killed him.” 

“What?” 

“This guy,” Eggsy says, voice thick and hoarse. “Alex Woodman. I killed him.” 

The flowers are bright on the fresh-turned earth, and Roxy says, “I don’t understand.” 

Eggsy looks at her sideways, smiles a crooked smile. “Yeah, you do,” he says. “He was there when I was – escaping. Fixing the fuses or somethin’.” He’s lost a lost of his accent these past few years, but it’s still there when he’s angry or excited or, well, fucking broken. “They’d destroyed my clothes, so I needed his. Got him in a chokehold, just meant to hang on until he dropped off. But then—” His voice catches; he bites his tongue. 

“Go on,” Roxy says, soft and gentle, and there’s a whisper in her voice of _I won’t leave you here alone_. It helps more than he wants it to. 

“I was chokin’ him,” Eggsy says, “and as I was chokin’ him I remembered them chokin’ me. And I broke his neck.” 

To her credit, Roxy doesn’t even start.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Eggsy says. “I swear it wasn’t. I just – lost control. And I killed him.” He sucks his cheeks in, bites his tongue again, harder, then remembers biting down so hard he severs his own flesh and feels sick. “I looked him up,” he says. “Local family. He’s got two kids.” 

Roxy’s hand is still enmeshed in his, and she squeezes briefly, says, “You can’t feel guilty about this, Eggsy. It was done by your hand but it’s not your fault.” She pauses, and her hand comes up, grips Eggsy’s bicep, pulls him closer. He doesn’t look at her because he doesn’t think he can, and she says, “Post traumatic stress disorder. Do you know what that is?” 

Eggsy snorts, but it’s not meant to be cruel. He says, “If you join the Marines, they make pretty fuckin’ sure you know what PTSD is, Rox.”

“Sorry,” Roxy says. “But the point still stands. You’re not sleeping, Eggsy. You have flashbacks, I _know_ you do, because I’ve seen your face when you get them. You look like a scared little boy.” 

“Fuck off,” Eggsy mumbles.

“No, I won’t,” Roxy says, and nudges him with her shoulder. “There are people you can talk to about this.” 

“I’ll stick with not talking, thanks.” 

Roxy’s tone is scathing. “Because that’s going _so_ well.” 

A muscle jumps in Eggsy’s jaw. 

They stand in silence for a moment, and then Roxy says, gentler, “Are you sorry you killed him?”

Eggsy doesn’t know how she can ask him that, but he knows that she has to. She has to be sure that he’s still him, and so he grimaces, says, “Of course I’m fucking sorry. Why do you think I’m here?” 

“Feeling guilty,” Roxy says, “isn’t the same as being sorry.”

“I’m _sorry!_ ” Eggsy practically roars. 

The leaves whisper in the trees, undisturbed. 

 

Eggsy doesn’t stay long under Merlin’s lock and key after that. 

He knows Merlin’s not exactly happy about it—keeps repeating Roxy’s song about PTSD and therapy until he’s blue in the face and Eggsy’s really having to suppress the urge to punch him in the face—but Eggsy’s not complaining. He gets sent out on milk runs for a while, shadowing shady dignitaries, running cover for Gawain when Merlin’s got his hands full with selection for the new Arthur, but anything’s better than sitting in bed and letting JB slobber all over his face night and day. 

It takes a few weeks, but when Eggsy doesn’t show any signs of breaking down in the arms of the latest arms dealer he’s supposed to be taking down, then Merlin ups his game, gives him politicial assassinations, information gathering and honey traps. He’s good at the latter, always has been, and when he shouts in the target’s ear in a crowded, noisy bar, pushes aside a lock of her hair and presses a kiss to the curve of her neck, then he can almost forget the belt around his neck and the cold stone beneath his cheek. 

He fucks that target because he has to, and he doesn’t come even when she’s screaming in his ear. 

He gets back after that mission smelling of sex and expensive perfume, and Roxy shadows him through the halls of the mansion for a good three days. He never stops telling her he’s fine. She never stops reminding him that he’s not. 

It’s Grenoble that fucks everything right to hell. 

Grenoble’s not a complicated mission: a party with the rich and famous; an assassination to foil without ever being noticed; a new fancy suit and two new porcelain-white teeth that double as highly-concentrated cyanide capsules. That last one is something he insisted on—and it’s something that Roxy doesn’t know about, can never know about—but if he’s in a room again with twenty guys and no way out then he’s not willing to take that chance. Death would be better – not that Roxy can know that. Not that Roxy can ever know about that. 

But Grenoble should be easy. This is something that he’s done so many times before, and so he mingles, martini in hand, flirts and breezes and watches the Prime Minister, eagle-eyed, watches the people around him and the currents in the crowd. There’s a knot of women in short dresses that swirl around the PM in ever-decreasing circles, getting closer and closer, and, oh, that’s just _too obvious_. 

Eggsy goes straight for that gaggle of short dresses and high heels, pushes straight through to the powder-blue dress and gently dips the barrel of his gun into the bare small of the assassin’s back. “Now,” he says, cut-glass accent cutting the heat and fuzz of the party, “if you’d like to come with me. I think we need to talk.” 

Her eyes are thick with kohl and her lips are a bright, blazing red. She snarls, but drops her weapon back into its thigh holster and comes with him. 

He ties her up in a back room with the zip ties he keeps in the lining of his jacket—not exactly Kingsman issue, but there are some things that are better his way—then drops the accent, says, “Merlin. You got me?”

“ _I got you, Eggsy,_ ” Merlin’s brogue rattles in his ear. “ _That’s her. Sasha Mantegna. Good work, Galahad. I’m contacting Interpol now: they should have agents with you within the hour._ ”

“Understood,” Eggsy says, and goes back to zip-tying. 

“Hey,” Mantegna says, shuffles herself around in her seat so that her short dress pulls up even shorter. “Hey, glasses. What’s your name?” 

Eggsy’s not going to answer that question. 

Mantegna spreads her knees apart, reaches out a heeled shoe to rub at his inner thigh. “Come on,” she says, voice thick and rich. “We can work something out, can’t we? I love a man in a suit.”

Eggsy zip-ties her ankles to the chair and then, just for good measure, zip-ties her knees together, too. 

Mantegna laughs a throaty laugh, says, “If that’s how you want it, big boy.” 

Eggsy’s ignoring it. Eggsy’s not paying any attention to any of this. 

“Of course,” Mantegna’s musing, “you could just be not interested. Although that doesn’t seem awfully likely, not when I look like this.” She’d be preening if she could move. She’s cocky for a girl trussed up with zip ties, and that sets bells ringing in Eggsy’s head. “You could be more interested in men,” Mantegna says. “Someone with your cheekbones, I wouldn’t be surprised.” Eggsy’s not quite sure what to make of them. “Or something else,” Mantegna muses. “Someone in your line of work, pretty face like that. And are those scars around your neck? Pretty fresh, too. I’m going to make a bold guess here, glasses, and say trauma.”

Eggsy flinches, which is deeply unprofessional and sets Mantegna’s eyes alight. 

“Ah,” she coos. “Trauma it is, then. Makes sense: I’ve been tied up by plenty of suits like you and even the most virtuous ones sneak a look at my tits. I don’t blame them—I paid a lot for them—but you? You’re not interested. That’s telling, sweetcheeks. Very telling.”

“Shut up,” Eggsy says bluntly – and, oh, he _knows_ it’s the wrong thing to say. 

Mantegna laughs, sharp and joyous, and says, “Oh, _baby_. A bigger boy did some nasty things to you, didn’t he? Can’t say I blame him. Can’t say I wouldn’t do the same given appropriate circumstances—” Eggsy’s heart is racing, pounding. His fists are clenched, and, _fuck_ , how is she getting to him? He’s better than this. “—but,” Mantegna says, “now’s not the right time.”

Her heel smashes into the side of his head, and everything goes dark. 

“ _Galahad? Galahad!_ Eggsy _!_ ” 

Eggsy scrabbles upright. He can feel the hot spit of blood on his skin and a throbbing headache starting up behind his temples – and _fuck_ , the chair’s empty. She’s gone. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

“ _Galahad! I can see your vitals, I know you’re awake. Report!_ ”

“I’m here, Merlin,” Eggsy gasps, straightens the glasses on his nose, drags himself to his feet.

“ _What the fuck just happened?_ ” Merlin is pretty livid. 

Eggsy’s not exactly happy about the situation either. “She had a knife,” he says. “I think. She must have. She cut the ties.” He can see them, sawed through and discarded. “ _Fuck._ How long was I out?” 

“ _Two and a half minutes. Go._ ”

Eggsy goes. 

The party is still raging, drunk celebrities pawing over even drunker politicians, and Eggsy weaves through the crowd, searching for the girl in the powder-blue dress. Colours and faces whirl around him, laughing mouths gaping into pits that he can’t escape, won’t escape, and he hears their voices in his ears— _Take away their power._ —at the same time as his tie is pulling around his neck, tighter, tighter. He can’t see her— _he can’t see her!_ —and it’s his fault, she distracted him, fuck, _his memories_ distracted him and—

A single gunshot sounds loud in the hall. 

 

Eggsy doesn’t go on another mission for five weeks. 

Merlin heard everything, _recorded_ everything, and so no matter how much Eggsy protests there is no way—no _fucking_ way, in Merlin’s exact words—he’s letting him out of the mansion’s door to do anything other than walk JB until he’s _talked to a fucking therapist_. Merlin’s potty mouth gets a lot worse when he’s angry – but, to be honest, Eggsy’s not arguing. 

He got the PM shot— _the fucking PM!_ —and it’s only because Interpol was already on their way that it wasn’t a lot worse than ‘shot’.

Fuck, he’s never felt less like a Kingsman.

Roxy goes from shadowing to full-on stalking. As in, she’s waiting outside his door when he wakes up, eats every meal with him, watches him from the mansion’s windows as he runs around the grounds, _races_ really, does everything he can to not think about exactly how much of a fuck up he’s turning out to be. She doesn’t talk, though, doesn’t come and sit him down and ask him whether he thinks it fucked him up that his dad died when he was still so young – and for that, Eggsy’s grateful. He knows Merlin wants him in counselling and therapy and every other euphemism for ‘help’ that they can come up with, but Roxy’s got his back. Sort of. 

His dreams are twelve kinds of crazy, though. That doesn’t stop, and sometimes he thinks about the Marines, about how often they drilled them in the symptoms of PTSD, in how it happens to the best of us and there’s no point hiding it until you go fucking mental and, oh, break the neck of some innocent electrician? 

It’s all a bit late for talking it out, now. 

So Eggsy runs and eats and sleeps, runs and eats and sleeps, and occasionally when he’s run so much he can barely stand he sleeps and doesn’t dream. 

Roxy sits opposite him at breakfast one day, and says, “You don’t need to wear that scarf anymore.” 

Eggsy shrugs and keeps wolfing down scrambled egg. “It’s still March,” he says. “It ain’t that warm.” 

Roxy’s lips twist, just a little, and she says, “That wasn’t what I meant. Your neck’s healed, Eggsy. You can’t see the bruises anymore.” 

Eggsy can see his reflection in the mirror that hangs opposite the table. He pulls the scarf away from his neck, just a little, and while in his mind’s eye his skin might still be mottled and purple, in reality it’s smooth and clean. Slightly scarred, but what part of him isn’t by now? – and he says, “Oh.” 

He keeps wearing the scarf. 

Once, Roxy asks him about Mantegna. Of course Merlin asks him about her, too—although ‘asks’ isn’t quite right; it’s more of an interrogation, complete with a barrage of swearing and Merlin’s lips spotted with furious spittle—but that’s not quite the same: Merlin wants to know what went wrong, what Eggsy was thinking, how he could let this happen. Roxy wants to know whether or not it haunts him in his dreams, and that’s a different matter entirely. 

“It’s not what she did,” Eggsy says quietly, nursing a half-empty pint. “It’s not the kicking me in the head and running away to shoot the PM. Whatever, these things happen. Like that time you let those Aussies take potshots—”

“Eggsy!” Roxy interrupts. Her cheeks are flushed, and she finishes the rest of her glass of red, pours herself another. “You _said_ you wouldn’t talk about that,” she hisses, drinks again. 

Eggsy smirks, but there’s no real glee behind it. “Anyway,” he says. “It’s like this.” He pauses, takes a mouthful, swallows, says, “It’s about power. All of it. It’s about power: first _they_ took it, then _she_ did. It’s like I can’t control anything anymore – and I _need_ control. _We_ need control, y’know? We’re fucked without it.” 

Roxy’s cheeks are more than a little flushed with drink, but her eyes gleam steady and bright. “Harry,” she says. “You’re worried you’re going to turn into Harry.” 

Eggsy snorts, downs the rest of his drink. “I _wish_ I could turn into Harry,” he admits, open and honest, and it might be the drink talking more than his actual heart but sometimes he misses Harry so fucking much. “I just—” He pauses, thoughtful, grabs Roxy’s bottle and tips four fingers into his pint glass. Tonight is a night for drinking, it seems, and he says, “Harry lost control once. _Once._ And it killed him.”

“Valentine killed him,” Roxy corrects quietly. 

“Same difference,” Eggsy answers, and downs the wine, too. 

Roxy looks at him a little differently after that, and he knows it’s not just because they’ve both watched the recordings from that church, watched the elegance and the beauty that poured through Harry’s every movement as he hacked and stabbed and shot and _murdered_. Power isn’t so important if you’ve got no one to exercise that power over – but they do. Eggsy does, and has, and he doesn’t want to be a murderer twice over. 

His wounds heal. Everything heals.

It’s a warm morning in April—Eggsy’s been off-duty for two months, now, and JB’s got a lot fatter as a result—and at breakfast Roxy says, “Merlin’s got a job for you.”

Eggsy forks smoked salmon into his mouth and says around the pink fish, “Is tha’ really a goo’ idea?” 

Roxy’s nose crinkles, but for once she doesn’t pass judgement. “We think so,” she says, and Eggsy cocks an eyebrow at that. She’ll make a fine head of this organisation someday, and she says, “I’ll be coming with you, of course, but you’ll be taking point. You’ll be in complete control.”

Eggsy swallows. “What’s the job?” he says, and if his hands are clenching and unclenching, palms sweaty and damp, well, she can’t tell. No one can tell. 

“Phil Amstel,” Roxy says, “and Tony Beck.” 

“Fuck off,” Eggsy says immediately, and he’s shoving back before he really knows what he’s doing, pushing to his feet and sending his chair sprawling to the ground behind him. “Fuck _right off_.” 

Roxy doesn’t move. She probably figured he would react like this, and she says, “The pair of them went underground after the incident in January. They’ve only just resurfaced, but they’re up to their old tricks again. Trafficking, murders, dumping bodies in the Thames. Merlin’s red-flagged it, wants it dealt with as soon as humanly possible.”

Eggsy’s not listening. Eggsy can’t listen. “The incident?” he asks, low and dangerous. “Is that what we’re calling it now? The _incident_?”

Roxy’s gaze is steady. “What would you prefer?” she asks coolly. “You’ve made it perfectly clear that you won’t listen if I talk about ‘rape’ or ‘trauma’ or ‘PTSD’ or anything that even vaguely sounds like any of those words. ‘Incident’ is the only word I’ve got left, and I’m using it to help you, you bloody idiot, so _sit down and listen to me._ ” She doesn’t raise her voice once. 

Eggsy right his chair and sits back down without another word. 

Roxy sits forward, folds her hands neatly on the table and says, “We don’t have long. Intel suggests that they’ll be moving on in a few days: apparently brutalising a mysterious but highly dangerous agent and then letting him escape puts the fear of God in even heartless, trafficking thugs like these. So we have to move fast. Everything’s planned, and, if you want to lead the operation, I can brief you right now.” And she produces one of Merlin’s magic clipboards, lines it up neatly with the edge of her bowl. 

“And if I don’t want to?” Eggsy says. He’s slouched down in his chair, arms folded and chin resting on his chest. There’s nothing he wants to do _less_ – but at the same time. At the same time. 

“There will be consequences,” Roxy says, so soft it’s like she won’t even admit it to herself. “The Kingsmen can’t have a dud agent, you _know_ that.” She straightens, pushes her shoulders back. “If you refuse this operation,” she says, “selections for your replacement will start within the week. You will be involved in the process, of course, but—”

“I get it,” Eggsy says, and his voice is hoarse. “No dead weight.” 

Roxy’s eyes are pleading with him. “No dead weight,” she agrees. 

He walked away from this once, when he put a gun between JB’s eyes and wouldn’t pull the trigger. He can’t do that again, but—

 _Phil Amstel, and Tony Beck._

“The operation has to start at noon,” Roxy says, gentle and soft and pleading. “You have to make a choice.” 

_Take away their power._

“Okay,” Eggsy says, and sits up in his chair. “What do I have to do?” 

 

Eggsy hasn’t gone proper Kingsman for a long time now, and it feels like shaking hands with an old friend. Perfectly-tailored suit: check. Pocket square: of course. Dagger-tipped Oxfords: naturally. Gadgets and gizmos and a snub-nosed gun tucked in his armpit: check. Tie tied in a perfect Windsor, knot pushed so high it hides the white scars dotted around his neck? Eggsy wouldn’t go anywhere without it. 

The operation is, for once, wonderfully simple. The traffickers have been significantly downsized since the last incident, so there’s unlikely to be any more encounters with small rooms filled with twenty thugs, and so when Eggsy and Roxy stroll up to the riverside property there are only two guards on duty. They’re not badly disguised actually—one’s wearing a black leather jacket and having a fag; the other’s pushing a clearly-fake baby around in a pram—and Roxy takes them both out at a distance, stun darts to both jugulars, not bullets because Merlin’s got the police on standby. Sometimes, these things need the long arm of the law as well as the short fist of the Kingsmen, and when there’s reportedly so many innocents inside, so many people who need saving not killing, well, the Kingsmen are happy to turn them over to people who have the manpower. So no killing the guards, as Merlin keeps rasping in their earpieces. 

Not that Eggsy’s gun is firing blanks. Not that Eggsy has any intention of not getting blood on his hands.

The warehouse is scabby and full of locked doors—Eggsy can hear voices behind those doors, low and plaintive, moaning and crying, or sometimes nothing but silence—but there’s no time to think about that, no time to think about humanity or emotion or anything but the pain that stabs through his memory, through his heart, through his lungs. He’s clinging on by his fingertips, and he’s supposed to be taking the lead but in reality he’s just following Roxy, letting her lead him, letting her give him back his life – because that’s what this is supposed to be about, isn’t it? Recovery; survival. Living again after such a long time just existing. 

Revenge. This is about revenge. 

Eggsy takes the lead. 

This place is dingier than the last one, naked bulbs hanging from ceilings and squeaking things scuttling in the corners, but they’ve both memorised the floorplan so know where to go: left, right, another right, down a corridor for six point seven metres, left again. There are voices up ahead, and they’re still only loud enough to count as a murmur but Eggsy can feel the bile rising in his stomach, the phantom bruises aching around his neck. He wants to shove his tie higher but can’t let go of his gun, so he keeps going, keeps pushing. 

There. Up ahead, a doorway. Voices, coming from the doorway, loud and shrill and laughing—

Eggsy stops dead. His breath stutters in his throat. 

Merlin’s voice sounds in his ear, reassuringly gruff. “ _Thermal imaging sees two bodies up ahead, Galahad. Looks like the goons have been fired._ ”

“Understood,” Eggsy says – and he thinks, _Galahad. Galahad._ He holds onto that, pulls it down deep until it’s everything he is, and then he keeps going, keeps pushing forward.

Roxy follows him, quiet and still, a shadow with a deadly weapon. Eggsy’s not sure when she swapped out her dart gun for her gun gun, but he can’t say he’s surprised. Sometimes the anger is too much to tamp down.

Another laugh, bright and bitter. 

Eggsy and Roxy—no, _Galahad and Lancelot_ —take up positions on either side of that half-open door, and they don’t need to speak to understand each other. Eggsy reaches out, rests his fingers against the doorhandle; Roxy readjusts her grip on her gun. A blink, and they’re bursting in, Eggsy hauling the door open and Roxy going in shouting—“ _Down on the ground, now! Do it now!_ ”—and for a horrible, horrible moment all Eggsy can see is the gun in the big one’s hand, the muzzle flashing up, dark and hollow and bitter—

Roxy puts a bullet between his eyes, and Phil Amstel collapses in a heap of dead bones and empty flesh. 

_Holy fuck. Holy fuck._

Eggsy’s hands are steady on his weapon. 

Tony Beck’s face is an absolute picture. He looks up at Eggsy, eyes wide, white powder that definitely isn’t icing sugar smeared up the side of his face, and says, “ _You_.”

“Possession of Class A drugs,” Eggsy says. “Pass that onto the coppers, will you? Every little helps.” 

“ _Will do._ ” Merlin’s voice is tinged with that flicker of wry amusement that Eggsy knows so well.

Tony’s lips twist into a sneer, into a grimace, and, oh _fuck_ , that’s an expression Eggsy remembers, that’s embedded in his heart and his head and his gut. His palms are clammy, and Beck says, “Your bitch just killed my mate.” 

No. Don’t. 

“He shouldn’t have gone for his gun,” Roxy— _Lancelot_ —replies, cool and calm, and _fuck_ how is she so okay? “He killed himself.” 

Tony’s lips froth with spit and phlegm. Eggsy remembers the taste of Phil saliva, remembers it sliding down his unresponsive face into his unresponsive mouth, and Tony’s locked onto Roxy, eyes blazing, fists clenching uselessly. “You cunt. You _fucking cunt_. I’m gonna fuck you on his body and then I’m gonna—”

Eggsy’s not exactly sure how Tony Beck ends up sprawled across the floor clutching his jaw and whimpering, blood and teeth spilling out of his shattered mouth, but he’s standing over him and there’s blood and spit on the muzzle of his gun and he’s never been bad at putting two and two together. Tony whimpers, claws away from him, wets his hands in his own blood and in the brain matter that Phil’s head spilled all over the carpeted floor—not stone, not cold, cold stone and cold, cold walls—and there’s something that might be fear in his eyes. Eggsy’s guessing Tony’s not done much by way of actual hand to hand before: it takes a certain kind of coward to shove his dick up someone else’s arsehole when they’re doped up so much they can’t even move. 

Tony Beck is mewling coward. 

“Galahad,” Roxy says. “What’s your move?” 

The gun is heavy in Eggsy’s hand, heavy and lethal, and the coppers aren’t here yet with their sirens and their rehabilitation and their _laws_. They’re on their own, just Eggsy and Roxy, and he could do whatever the fuck he wanted to whoever the fuck he wanted, take out all that pain and hurt and shame on the fucker who took everything from him—

And that’s when Eggsy remembers. 

Galahad. He’s Galahad, not Eggsy, not that kid who ran away from responsibility and Dean’s fists, and he hasn’t been that kid in a long time now. He’s Galahad, a Kingsman, a fucking _knight_ , and that’s something that he fought so hard for and that he gave up so much to get. It’s something that he’s not going to let anyone take from him. 

_Take away their power._

Rage and anger and weakness. Impulsiveness and fear. Harry Hart, killing in a whirlwind of chaos and rage. 

He will not let the fuckers win.

“Tie him,” Eggsy says, and his voice is gruffer than he’d like but his gun is steady in his hands. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Roxy start, sees her half-turn towards him. “Galahad?”

Don’t let the fucker win. Don’t let him take everything from you. 

“ _Lancelot_ ,” Eggsy counters. “Tie him up. We’ll leave him for the cops.” Just for a moment he breaks protocol, looks over at him, takes his eyes off Beck – and Roxy’s forehead is furrowed in confusion but, _fuck_ , he feels a smile creeping over his lips for the first time in months. “Think about it,” he says. “The guy trafficks kids into prostitution. Put him away and he’s only gonna be one step above the pedophiles.” 

On the floor, Tony’s still cradling his jaw, moaning and groaning and generally acting like the fucking coward he is, that Eggsy _knows_ he is. 

Eggsy tongues his fake teeth absently, levels his gun at the fucker’s head with steady hands. “You need spare ties?” he asks. “I’ve got plenty. I’ll even lend you my belt.” 

And Eggsy doesn’t see it, but Roxy’s smiling.

_finis_


End file.
